Surya Publications HQ

Tanah Abang, Central Jakarta

Wednesday, 25th of September 2026

“So, sorry if I’ve gotten this wrong, but… you want us to write your book for you while you only guide us along using your ideas, yet you still expect us to give half of the royalties for your ‘contribution’?” Mr. Mukmin reiterated, with his face displaying thousand-folds of bewilderment.

The brat adjusted his bowtie, with that smug face of his answering our Editor-in-Chief’s unpleasant countenance. Seriously, dude, stop dressing like that when you have a full-on mullet. I mean, you’re like, 19. You look so much like Pee-wee Herman if he went homeless, and the fact that I can’t get that imagery out of my head isn’t even funny anymore.

I rubbed my eyes, quickly adjusting myself to my surroundings. Short recap, right. I stayed up all night… studying… again. Didn’t get enough sleep, and my body just gave in to the temptations from the land of Nod. Thankfully, my short rest didn’t turn into a slumber, evident as this piece of shit is still in front of me–and due to the fact that none of the people around me had bothered to wake me up.

“Of course, it’s my idea, is it not?” He answered, still thinking that he’d gotten the breakthrough of the century in literature. “I’m being very generous here, aren’t I? I get my concept published, you still get a fair share of your money and a lot of exposure from my work.”

His straightforward answer drew various expressions from the board of five judges chosen for this half-year’s Sayembara. Mr. Sanca, the Director and Lead Chairperson of Surya, kept a smirk on his face while twiddling that Parker pen of his near his cheeks. The aforementioned Mr. Mukmin, the Editor-in-Chief, had this mix of ire and tiredness after busying himself dealing with this man-child. Rian, Human Resources Manager… I don’t even know where he is right now. Finally, there’s Anne Hutahaean, Surya’s prima donna writer (who I guess is just there to fill the fifth spot), reading a completely unrelated novel on her phone.

And then there’s me, Managing Editor, who’d so committed himself to not speak for a while that his body fell asleep as a result. Why? You may ask. Well, I’m tired, and I want to sleep. I’ve done this for two days, and the gossiping from yesterday’s “incident” hasn’t gone quieter still. Any more stress and I’d rage and die on the spot.

“Exposure, is it? Hehe… hahaha…” Mr. Mukmin pressed the base of his palm against his forehead, unable to stifle the mocking laugh he’d held back since he first heard of this clownish proposal. “Well what do you think, Mr. Nastalim? You’ve been awfully… quiet this time ‘round.”

Oh, don’t throw the ball at me, you old fart. Please, someone, get me out of this mess.

Wait, but that’d mean I’d have to spend the rest of the workday actually working.

In actuality, I’d like it more if someone were to just stab me, please.

At least that way I get paid time off. Free sick leave, yay.

I sighed audibly, letting go of my finger’s pinch over the ridge of my nose. Stopping for a moment, I thought of the artillery of words I’d like to unleash upon this poor man-child. But alas, I think a quick shot with an arrow to the heart would suffice.

“Mr. Amirrudin, I-“

“Amiruddin.” The man suddenly corrected.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“It’s Amiruddin, not Amirrudin. You press on the ‘d’, not the ‘r’.”

I let out another sigh, trying to both balance my body and compose my mind as I stood up from my chair. “Right, Mr. Amiruddin. Look, Mr. Mukmin, our dear Editor-in-Chief over here, might’ve explained it in a way that made our position less vivid to you. So I’ll be brief with the board’s final thoughts regarding your… proposal.”

I grabbed the copy of his “script” (if you can even call it that) he gave and started to walk towards him, ignoring the stares of everyone inside the room. Extending my arm, I offered the pile of paper back to the man who gave it to me.

“Screw you, and no.”

“Heh.” Mr. Sanca chortled shortly, trying to picture himself as more dignified as I walked back to my seat.

Really? You all are going to be like that? I’d expected some audible gasps or something, so no thanks to you all.

“That’s very rude and unprofessional, but I’ll ignore that.” Mr. Amiruddin decided to snap back, which made me turn my head towards him. “This manuscript is going to revolutionize the genre, you know! You all will be sorry when you realize that Surya had just missed out on this opportunity—missed out on me!”

Okay… be still, my raging heart.

.

.

.

Yeah, fuck it. Pee-wee deserves the artillery fire.

“Ignoring your ridiculous proposal that’d make us nothing more than a glorified ghostwriting circle, your idea doesn’t even hold a single spark that can outshine those truly outstanding. It’s cliched, banal, and nothing more than a rehash of the trends that were once popular overseas.”

“Wha-“

“Comparing yourself to the revolutionaries of fiction, global or local, is just an insult to their legacies. Kafka, Tolkien, Le Guin, Asimov, Djokolelono, Khalil Ali—you spoke their names, yet they’d all rather burn their books and turn into nobodies rather than be likened to you and your cheap light novel want-to-be.”

“Why you-“ His voice broke midway, heh. “I’ll have you know that I currently study at Kyoto University, and even my peers there agree that my ideas are award-worthy!”

“I couldn’t give two shits even if you got yourself a Doctorate from Yale’s Humanities Department. Frankly, I would be the least interested person in the room when it comes to where you get your degree. Not with your skills and attitude, at least.” I tapped my index finger at his pile of papers. “Take this with you and get out, before I call security over to haul you back to Kyoto.”

His legs started to visibly tremble, and he hastily grabbed all the things he brought with him to this room. I thought I was done, yet this little scoundrel apparently still had some “fight” in him.

“You! My father will make you pay—I’ll make sure of it! My father-“

“Is a diplomat for the Osaka consulate? Yeah, I’ve heard it twenty-two times already. But sure, make him come here so I can jam your light novel crap so far up both of you that it stays unlit even in the Land of the Rising Sun. GO!” I slammed a tightened fist on the table; the wooden surface bent and wobbled slightly upon contact.

“Eep!” With a final squeal, homeless Pee-wee Herman ran out of the room with his tail in between his legs. And I, with certainty, could return to my seat.

The room returned to quiet briefly, and then the board of jury exploded into various states of laughter after they were sure that the coast was truly clear.

“Ragin’ Justin’. That’s why I’d never let you miss out on these, Kwie Fong!” The Director boisterously guffawed, leaning back on his chair.

“Took one for the team, eh? Thanks for basically letting our collective feelings loose there, Mr. Justin.” Mr. Mukmin, despite retaining a calm look on his face, sent me a stifled look of approval.

“We still haven’t gotten a single one, but thank the gods above I still got to see Ragin’ Justin’ in actin’.” That one was so forced that it’s outright bad, Rian. Besides, when the hell did you come back?

“You’re welcome,” I muttered, “but just let me sleep for now.”

Anne stayed silent. Instead, she closed her phone and let her green eyes stare solemnly at the empty desk in front of her.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“What about you, Anne?” I asked. “You’re usually the first one to comment on the things I do, aren’t you?”

“Whatever, Justin. We both know that was something that you’d rather not do. The Justin I knew wouldn’t do that to a kid, lest of all in that manner.” She turned her gaze towards me, letting strands of her long, golden hair cover her face slightly. “I know you’re better than that, yet why aren’t you?”

“Eh, you’re no fun, Anne,” Rian said before I could even think of a response.

“Alright, settle down!” Director Sanca raised his voice, switching his attention to his secretary. “Fitri, bring in the next one.”

-◃⬥▹-

Today’s session lasted for three hours and counting, though we’ve slogged through the list of auditionees like maddened demons. I could sense the room’s lack of energy, and since lunchtime was closing in, all most of us wanted to do was to be done with it and go eat in peace.

Since that Kyoto brat, we’ve interviewed thirteen people and five before him. Yesterday, we managed to go through thirty of them before the work day was done. We only accepted forty-four applicants and scouted six talents this time around, so that makes a total of fifty. The various characters had come and gone, yet none had been able to meet our standards.

“This is going to be the last one, right sir?” Rian asked, turning his chair towards the Director’s.

“Can’t they wait? You promised we’d be done before lunch, and I’ve told my wife that I’d get lunch with her today.” Mr. Mukmin voiced his concern.

“I promise that this one’s worth the wait, so just hang on. I’ll extend your lunch hours if need be.” The Director straightened his posture, waiting for his secretary to return. “What the hell’s taking her so long?”

Mr. Mukmin quietly rolled his eyes. “Well, it won’t make my wife happier, but thanks.”

A couple more minutes went by, and Fitri was the first to enter. She had her usual clipboard in one hand, yet the ream-worth of files in between her other arm had drawn my eyes to it. She tip-toed her way to place the files on the table. It must not be easy to carry all that with those stiletto heels on, I assume.

Then came she, our fiftieth and final interviewee for this Sayembara. Her looks are captivating, so much so that she could easily compete in a junior beauty pageant instead of this glorified sham of a talent show. Well, unlike the tall blonde beauty that is Anne, I’d say the girl would be more fitting to be classified as more of the cutesy type. And by that, I mean she’s a textbook example of oriental elegance—black hair, dark indigo eyes, gentle features. A black sweater covered her small yet well-defined body, contrasting the white shirt peeking through from under the collar.

She’s a cutie, I’ll give her that. But the cute types are definitely not my type.

To be honest, I can’t imagine her as anything else but a little sister I never had.

I know better, though. This girl’s the last of the scouted talents, which means she’s the best of the best that Director Sanca and Mr. Mukmin had scoured this time around. Most may not see her as so at first glance, but I’d like to think that the five of us here immediately knew that this girl meant business. She may use as much concealer and contour as she likes, but I know those “3 AM sleeper” bags under her eyes when I see them. I—

“For the day, yes.”

Ah, damn it.

"Besides, I have my ever-reliable junior watching my back in case said annoying boss decides on having me work on fics, right?”

Right, whoever she is and whatever “gifts” she has, I want nothing to do with her. All I can smell is trouble. And I don’t want trouble, especially if Raka or I get dragged into it.

“Well you look pretty young, kid. How old are you, exactly?” asked Rian, still eyeing the ream of paper carried by Sanca’s secretary.

“Eighteen.” She answered quickly, flashing a kind smile on her face as she passed along the five brown envelopes with thick stacks of paper inside. Around a hundred pages each, I reckon.

“Ah, just entered college, then? Where?” Rian continued.

“I decided to take the year off to find my footing and all, so I haven’t enrolled in any university as of now. At a later date? Given the chance? Perhaps, but not now.”

The five of us nodded at her answer—one solidly composed, I might add. It’s not exactly common for writers to start this way, but it’s not that big of a deal in the end if they find success with their works. Nevertheless, we’re ahead of schedule, so I found it fine to just make small talk with the girl. It’s not like I’m going to see her again soon, given the trends of today’s interviews. I glanced at the visitor’s pass she wore around her neck, reading out her name.

Ayunda B. Hadyan… so Ayu, is it? Yeah, the name fits her all right[1].

“Tell me, Ayunda. Who’s your favorite author?” God, please forgive me for asking her this clichéd question. “You’re still young, and considering you’re a girl I guess you’ve taken after Baiq, Hirata, or our very own Hutahaean here. If I remember right, Rain of Tears over Parisian Lights still charts as the second best-selling book this month.”

The girl finally arrived at my end of the desk, sliding over my copy to me.

“Ah, Miss Anne’s newest outing? I haven’t read it yet, but I quite liked Heidelberg Melodies when that first came out.” My eyes could only widen as that title came out of her mouth.

It’s not exactly an open secret, but more than a few in Surya know of Anne’s immense, irrational hatred towards her debut book.

Quick, girl! Ask forgiveness before–

Snap, crack.

O’ Lord, have mercy on her soul.

“You liked Heidelberg? I see.” Anne’s smile was twisted, almost sadistic. Her thumb twiddled the now-broken pencil, passing it over the gaps of her slender fingers. “So I reckon I’m not your favorite writer, then?”

The girl plainly shook her head and said, “No, Miss Anne. I respect you as an author, yes, but young adult romance stories such as yours isn’t really my cup of tea.”

An acceptable answer, she likely deemed, as Anne no longer inquired the girl about her opinion on the matter. I examined the brown envelope in front of me. The title of the manuscript is laid in front, written with a whiteboard marker.

“The Thousand Sons of Arnor” by Ayunda B. Hadyan.

Sounds fantasy-esque to me, so I guess she’s one of the rare exceptions of the feminine type amidst SFF’s infamous sausage fest. Times have changed, and I’m somehow unaware of it. Huh, you do learn something new every day after all.

“Those are some of the works I’d done within the last six months. I believe the portfolio I chose is enough for the board of jury to review.” Choosing her words carefully, the girl had indirectly given us her permission to read her work.

About a hundred pages in six months. I consider it a normal pace for amateurs like her, I suppose.

Wait, did she just say “works”? “some”? As in, you know, plural?

“I personally think it’d be better next time to just print a single copy of the same work instead of wasting papers that could likely be of use to you in the future. We’re fine with sharing copies, you know.” Mr. Mukmin, ever so prudent, gave his very unimportant word of advice to Ayu.

“If you would care to look closer, Mukmin, I’m sure you will notice that they’re all titled differently.” The Director pointed out, and the girl looked on with proud eyes and a smug smile.

A hundred pages in six months? For an amateur, that’s commendable. More than five hundred? I doubt I can do that myself, even if given the time and opportunity. And true to Mr. Sanca’s word, all five envelopes were differently labeled from one another.

“Orion Prime’s Conundrums by Ayunda B. Hadyan”, in Director Sanca’s hands.

“Whispering Witch of the Willow Woods by Ayunda B. Hadyan”, in Anne’s hands.

“The Outlaw and the Ranger by Ayunda B. Hadyan”, in Rian’s hands.

“Infernal by A. B. Hadyan”, in Mr. Mukmin’s hands.

The gait she confidently used, the words she so carefully chose, the expressions she boldly displayed, and even the air she exuded around her… all of it felt close to home. This style of exaggerated theatrics reminds me of him. No, actually… there’s no doubt in my heart that she is being him—imitating every inch of his persona. The person standing in front of me, regardless of whether this is all just my thoughts running wild or otherwise, truly feels like a real, bona fide, larger-than-life figure. Some sort of Strasberg[2]-esque technique put into writing, perhaps? No, no. I sensed that this girl was nothing but trouble, but I didn’t expect Lady Fate herself to present me with his spitting image. This is all far too convenient to be an accident or a coincidence.

My hands barely held its calm as my eyes scanned the room, seeing indifference in everyone’s expression, save for one. The Director smiled excitedly as he began to read the manuscript in his hands, knowing full well of the Pandora’s box that he’d brought here today.

I again looked at the girl in front of me, and my deepest thoughts felt as if they whispered directly to me. There should be no harm in checking things out, right? As good as she may be, there’s no way that a writer as green as her could move the entire board to a consensus. At best, her works could serve to make this Sayembara worthwhile for my entertainment. But still, if otherwise…

This could be the key to bringing back what was lost.

Ah, fuck. This one’s way too fun to ignore.

I could feel a smirk forming on my face, having finally found excitement after all those mediocrities. You want to play, girl? Then I’ll bite.

Now that you’ve shown what kind of mask you’re wearing, let’s see if you’re truly what you seem.

Now that you’ve taken what was his as your own, let’s see if you can live up to his name.

Now that you’re here, let’s finally begin.

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[1] - Ayu means “beautiful/attractive” in Javanese.

[2] - Refers to Lee Strasberg, the Polish-American theater director credited as the father of modern method acting.